


Wash Yourself Away

by Trobadora



Series: Desire 'verse [2]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic Made Them Do It Aftermath, Masturbation in Shower, Sex Magic Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick tries to wash it all away. </p><p>Follows immediately from <i>A Draught of Deep Desire</i>, where a Zaubertrank made them do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash Yourself Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the sequel; it's more of an interlude. It was originally meant to be posted for [Merry Month of Masturbation 2016](http://mmom.livejournal.com/1050747.html) – I'm only two months late. /o\

Nick opened the car door, his mind reeling, and absent-mindedly dropped into the seat. He immediately regretted it.

Not even so much because it hurt, though it did. He was sore, damn it. But worse, with the spike of pain in his ass came a flash of memory – fingers going deep, driving him to the edge; Renard's cock sheathing itself, roughly; his ass clenching around the fullness of it – and his whole body shuddered, every muscle drawing tight as he flushed hot all over.

No. _No._

Nick made himself release his tight-knuckled grip around the car key, forced the images, the sensations away. It was over; he had to put it behind him. It was a Zaubertrank. It was magic; none of it was real. None of it mattered.

And he had far more urgent problems right now – like the revelation of who and what his captain really was. Like the question of what to do about that. Renard had agreed to talk again tonight, and Nick needed to have a game plan ready. He wasn't going to be caught off guard again.

 _With your pants down_ , his subconscious supplied. _Literally._

And with Renard, of all people. Renard, who was Wesen. Renard, who had known about him all this time. 

Nick gritted his teeth and put the car into drive with more force than strictly necessary. Renard had admitted he'd been Adalind's boss. He must have been behind everything she'd done, back at the start – trying to kill Aunt Marie, going after the key, nearly killing Hank to blackmail Nick.

Renard couldn't be trusted. But Nick knew far too little. When they met again, he'd have to press his advantage, get answers out of the man. 

What questions to ask, though?

Damn, he'd have to see Renard again, look him in the eyes. Eyes that had seen ...

Nick's mind balked at the thought of what exactly Renard had seen, what he'd done. But his body had other ideas, and the memories shivered over his skin like a physical touch. Renard's hand slapping him hard across the face; Renard's mouth biting into his shoulder; Renard's cock pushing between Nick's lips –

He jerked his thoughts away again, forcefully, eyes fixed on the road, hands too tight around the steering wheel.

Where could he even begin with the questions he had? There were too many of them. Just how much of the police captain he thought he'd known was a façade? Who was Renard really, underneath?

Nick nearly missed the next turn, blinking away a vision of Renard's open trousers, his cock jutting out.

He made every effort to focus, to plan, as he drove. But the sense memories were overwhelming, inescapable. His skin felt too raw. And his jeans chafed between his legs with every small movement, though he tried not to think about what was crusted onto his thighs.

Nick was almost grateful for it – the sheer petty irritation distracted him at least a little from the inside of his head.

~*~

By the time he got home, everything itched.

"Juliette?" Nick called as he swung open the front door and let himself in. No one answered. The house was quiet.

Shoulders tense, Nick looked around the living room, then toward the stairs. He needed to get out of these clothes. Take a shower, clean up, put everything behind him. Maybe then he'd be able to think more clearly.

But where was Juliette? 

In the kitchen, Nick found a note on the fridge. His mouth quirked wistfully. Thanks to Juliette's stolen memory, every small part of living together was a conscious effort for her, but she'd remembered to leave him something this time. Her note was short: she was out with friends – all of whom she remembered, unlike him; no wonder she preferred their company – and would be home late. 

_Thank god._ The thought came unbidden. But Nick hadn't even thought about what he'd say to her, how to explain the state of his clothes, the smell of sex, the bite marks on his neck.

Who was he kidding? There was no explaining. And how could he hope to reconnect with her if she found him like this?

Nick quickly made his way upstairs, uncomfortably, guiltily glad. He was lucky she was out; at least he didn't have to face her just yet.

In the bathroom he quickly, efficiently pulled off his clothes and stuffed them into the washer, then stepped into the shower stall, all without a single glance toward the mirror. Hot water and soap. He'd wash away as much as he could, and then the rest he'd be able to deal with. Somehow.

The water felt good for a moment, relief from the itch and the gooseflesh of his skin, from the sensitivity heightened by sense memory. But it stung against too many spots that only made his memory flare up anew. 

His shoulder, neck and chin. His hips, his ass.

The taste of Renard's cock on his tongue flooded his mouth, vivid and inescapable, and his stomach clenched. Nick let hot water run into his mouth to wash it away, considered soap just to be sure. Feeling completely ridiculous, he spat out a mouthful of water and clenched his teeth.

His skin still itched, and he reached for the soap after all. Scrubbing it all away, that was the thing. He worked up a lather in his chest hair, spread foam over his abdomen, his shoulders, his pecs. His nipples peaked as his hand rubbed across.

It didn't help. His hands on his own skin only reminded him of every other touch he'd felt today, and oh god, he was getting hard. How was he still capable of it, after this afternoon? How could he?

Adalind had drugged them, for god's sake. Neither of them had wanted any part of it. In fact, Renard was probably doing the exact same thing right now, trying to wash it all off. Nick clung to the thought, willing away his erection. It refused.

A vision flashed before his closed eyes, Renard's large hands soaping up his bare chest, and Nick's hips jerked forward reflexively, into nothing, as a surge of blood rushed through him.

Roughly, he scrubbed at the itchiness between his thighs, his cheeks, and didn't let himself wince at the sting. He was only cleaning himself, only washing away what never should have been. It wasn't him; this wasn't him. It was just the remains of a Zaubertrank. It had to be.

But every touch against a sensitive spot sent a wave of desperate, shameful arousal through him, and his erection twitched, clearly not going anywhere.

Reluctantly, unwillingly, and harsh with the shame of it, he closed his fist around himself. 

Suddenly and intensely, he could feel it again – Renard's hand instead of his, larger, long-fingered, sure and possessive, wrapped around him with just the right pressure. With a moan, he thrust into that imaginary hand – into his own fist. And then his stomach clenched, his throat convulsed, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to stop this, to make it all go away. 

Abruptly Nick let go of himself, pressing the heel of his hand against the base of his cock, hard, punishing. There was no relief.

He slumped against the tiles, hot water beating down onto him, and he struggled with his breath. Nick wished he could simply let himself fall – let go; be swept away with the water; washed down the drain into nothing. 

It flashed through him then, the memory – lying on his back, sprawled where he'd fallen when Renard had thrown him across the room. Renard standing above him. Renard's foot coming down on his crotch.

Oh god, he'd humped Renard's _shoe_.

Nick flushed with shame at the memory – shame, and an instant, breathtaking new wave of arousal. His face burned, his skin felt raw, and his hips were surging helplessly against the memory of leather and firm, unforgiving pressure.

That hadn't been him, he told himself. He'd never wanted ...

With a desperate jerk, Nick turned the faucet to cold. Icy water shocked his heated skin, pouring over him relentlessly. He stood still, every sinew and muscle stiff and tensed, letting it hit him without flinching, letting it turn him to shivering. His erection abated a little under the cold. But his skin only felt more raw, gooseflesh and pin-pricks of ice making him too aware of everything.

Eventually, it might turn him numb, despite a Grimm's endurance. _Eventually._ How long could he stand here and pretend this was helping?

His fist clenched around his cock again, reflexively, helplessly. Desperately. He wanted to make it all go away. He wanted to stop – he had to stop, he thought wildly as he thrust hard into his fist. But he couldn't. 

Couldn't bring himself to, a stubborn bit of self-honesty insisted. Damning. Condemning.

Face flushed despite the cold water, cock red and hard, Nick thrust again into his almost too-harsh grip. And again. 

Again. He couldn't stop.

Memories, sensations, _need_ – it all was right there, insistent, and he couldn't make it go away. Couldn't stuff the thrill of it back into the closet it had spilled out from. Couldn't pretend this wasn't happening, that some part of him didn't _want_ –

Compulsively his hips jerked forward again, his hand pumped down. Again. Again.

It was happening. It was. And he couldn't stop.

Finally, helplessly, he gave up trying. He let himself go, memories washing over him, let himself fall into pleasure. With a desperate sob, he spilled himself.


End file.
